


More Ghosts than People

by hartstrings



Series: A Kind of Blindness [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: F/M, Goodbyes, Hurt No Comfort, NCR ending, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Fallout: New Vegas, courier six visits the commonwealth, deacon and boone are very alike, emotionally unavailable men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 01:57:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21366295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hartstrings/pseuds/hartstrings
Summary: They sought vengeance together. At the end of all things, it's hollow. The Courier leaves the Mojave she's shaped - and the man she loves - in search of the end of the horizon.Deacon finds what happens to heroes while visiting Goodneighbor - and what it means for Charmer.or: Craig Boone and Deacon are men who've lost their heart and purpose. Courier Six and Charmer are doomed to love them anyway.
Relationships: Craig Boone/Female Courier, Deacon/Female Sole Survivor
Series: A Kind of Blindness [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1562854
Comments: 18
Kudos: 95





	1. The Divide

Hoover Dam broke them apart.

Courier Six had done it for him, in her heart. It ate at her, venom worse than any Cazador could possess. The fate of thousands, history spanning back centuries, the future of the Mojave - it was a sick joke that it all ended up in her hands. Maybe that shot to the head had fucked her up more than she’d ever thought, because she thought, even for just a moment, that she was capable of deciding their future. When it came time to place her bets, she’d placed hers with the NCR. Let the Great Bear devour the Mojave, for better or worse. Because _ he _ was from the NCR. Because she wanted to make a world where he could belong.

They were heroes. Boone had command of a recon division awaiting him if he ever returned to the NCR. Courier Six was given a payout that could buy her a penthouse in the UltraLuxe. Both were granted medals. But she was an outsider - and while Boone was slowly embraced back into the nation that forged him, Courier Six found herself iced out. Too important to risk on any assignment, too much of a rogue agent to trust in any formal capacity. _ Thanks for saving our asses, don’t let the door hit you on the way out. _

She’d lost herself. A radio signal lured her into the Sierra Madre, starting a months long journey ending at the Divide. The end of the world. And even then, even with the knowledge that her heroism was for nothing, was borne out of an almost childish desire to have the man she loved _ feel _ something - she stood with the Bear. Talked down a shade of a memory from annihilating everything. Returned to the Mojave with his coat and a new collection of sins and scars.

_ Let go. Begin again. _ The Sierra Madre had infested her mind, and those echoes tore at her more than the radio static and insistent beeping at her neck. 

New Vegas was already beginning its transformation when she returned. The Followers were gone. Freeside was quieter. Fear and change was thick in the air. It was thick in her, too. If the Divide had taught her anything, it was that she could not continue as she had, could no longer remain in the Mojave. She’d already done enough, already let her narcissism carve the future like water in a canyon. To watch the fruits of her labors - it was too much. More than she deserved.

The Courier had seen death and suffering from an inability to let go. The Courier was going to find her happiness, away from what she had wrought - she couldn’t linger and wither, crushed beneath the weight of it all. She owed it to those who'd died to survive. To continue. 

She wasn't going to do it alone.

—-

McCarran was a hive of activity. The gate guard seemed stunned when she told him who she was, waved over a superior to ensure she was the real deal. Courier Six was dust and death, tired eyes. Sandblasted and sun scorched. Not the image of the legend that was already growing.

Boone was at the target range, overseeing a few youths. Still the same silhouette, glinting sunglasses and crimson beret. Expression ever unreadable - though she noted, at least, a visible swallow as she approached.

“Not surprised?” she hazarded a tease, a dry chuckle escaping her chapped lips. 

Boone was silent for a few moments, making the decision to dismiss the youths at target practice before answering her question. “No.” Flat tone as always. She knew why he hid his eyes behind those fucking sunglasses - because they were the only part of him that ever betrayed anything. 

“Well, while four months-”

“Six.” Boone corrected.

“-six months might be long enough for everyone else to assume I’ve died, I’m glad you still hold the faith.” Courier Six’s smile turned genuine. Lapsing back into the old habits, back in what she knew now were the glory days. She missed him. Missed him in her very bones as she had walked through hell and returned intact.

Boone rolled his shoulders, rubbing at his neck. Exhaustion obvious with each movement. “Travelled with you long enough to know that if something finally ended up killing you, I’d know.” He looked her up and down, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. A frown threatening to appear, but reined in. “Surprised to see you _ here _, though. If you came just to tell me you’re still alive, you shouldn’t have troubled yourself.”

“I can’t stop in with an old friend? It’s been half a year.” The sudden rift that had opened had taken her off guard. The courier grappled to find some rope to cross it. “How’s command suiting you?”

A scowl flashed over his features. “It’s not. They want to send me back west. I told them I’d leave the Mojave when I’m dead. I’m back with 1st Recon, but they want me around the kids for morale.” He spat on the ground. “It’s bullshit, but I figure I can at least make sure they don’t get themselves killed first day out there.”

_ Let go. Begin again. _

“Oh.” Courier Six breathed. This was a mistake. She should have just left, let them all think she died out in the sand somewhere. Already she knew that what she had come to ask would be a fruitless endeavor, and as she tried desperately to think up how to say her goodbyes - _ how to handle the _ ** _concept_ ** _ of goodbye _ \- Boone studied her.

“You didn’t come to make small talk.” A statement of fact. Sniper’s eyes saw to the heart of her. “Come on. They got me my own tent, might as well make use of it.” 

Courier Six realized it wasn’t just Boone who was studying her - more than a few soldiers had paused what they were doing to gawk. She accepted the invitation wordlessly, and he led her to his tent. 

It was tucked in neatly among the tents belonging to command, large, more like huts with canvas walls than anything. He held the flap open for her to enter first. The quarters were spartan, as she knew they’d be. A desk with a few tools upon it and a dirty rag. A well kept cot, sheets smooth. His worldly possessions tucked neatly away in a footlocker. 

Boone pulled out the chair from his desk, gesturing for her to sit. He took a seat on the cot across from her. He made no movement to suggest she begin talking, and instead removed his sunglasses to clean them on his shirt. He did not lift his eyes to meet hers.

What could she say? What argument could she wield? The courier’s mouth was dry, and all she could do was watch Boone’s careful movements, trying to memorize them. She didn’t want to forget, even if she had to.

“I’m leaving.” It fell from her lips before she realized it. Boone paused, looking her in the eye at last. _ Resigned _, she realized, and then the words came tumbling out. “I can’t stay. They don’t want me here. I thought maybe I’d set up on a ranch somewhere, but-”

“Too many memories here.” Boone finished for her, letting out a long exhale. “Yeah.” That silent understanding that had always existed between them had returned. They were outcasts, the two of them, doomed to never quite belong. That understanding had built a bond that took down the Legion. 

“Yeah.” she repeated. It was her turn to swallow. “I’m going to head east.” Her voice was firm, the voice of the Courier that had told Caesar his end had come. “Until I can’t head east anymore.”

“You’ll find the ocean or death.” Boone’s brows cast shadows over his eyes, his frown returning, deepened. “East is Legion territory. Probably scattered now, but it’ll be dangerous.” His tone was ever factual, no judgement carried. 

“I came here to see if you wanted to come with me.” There it was, laid bare before them like a corpse. That’s what it was between them, really - a feral ghoul, some facsimile of what _ was _. A love he could never feel again. The ghost of what he could be ever beckoning her forth.

_ Let go. Begin again. _

Boone set his sunglasses down beside him on the cot, raising his hand to massage the bridge of his nose. It was a battle to keep her breathing even, to keep that mantle of the Courier about her shoulders. Like his answer wasn’t dreaded, like she was not praying for the impossible. Like she hadn’t brought about a change in history for the chance to hear a _ yes _.

“I wish I could.” It wasn’t a yes. Boone rested his hands on his knees, bracing himself - keeping himself from leaning forward. “Didn’t kill enough of the bastards at the Dam. Would be good to hunt them to the last. But I’ll tell you the same thing I told the general - if I’m leaving the Mojave, it’s in a coffin.” There was that telltale intensity to his gaze - Carla, ever Carla. She had died here, and he would die with her. “I’m sorry.”

The courier was chasing a ghost - and so was Boone.

She wouldn’t let it destroy her. Instead, she nodded, taking advantage of the dip of her head to hastily bat away tears that threatened to spill over. “Thought I’d ask for old time’s sake.” Smiling took more effort than downing a deathclaw, but she did it. She wanted him to remember her lit up in the sun, rifle in hand, sprawled in the desert by his side. Smiling as she took her shots, counting kills. Her head throbbed. The migraines were threatening to start again, the love letter Benny had left her when he put a bullet in her skull. 

They stared at each other. This was goodbye - and the reality of it was settling over them both. Boone still held his grim resignation. He wasn’t going to try to convince her. Cared enough to know it’d bring her ruin. Instead, he reached for the beret on his head, pressing the thing of crimson felt into her hands. “For old time’s sake.” he repeats. “Be the last thing they never see out there.” 

“Going to be hard without a spotter.” Her voice cracked, and she tried to swallow her feelings down again. She wanted to stay. She wished she could stay. To know that all of the blood and horror was _ worth _ it. 

Boone did the extraordinary, just then. He reached out and placed his hand over hers. His palms were rough. Warm. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.” His voice was quiet, nearly a rasp. The courier dared to look at him, and her chest clenched at the sight. He was apologizing, in his own way. Apologizing for the two of them - and for the guilt she could see in his eyes.

_ Let go. Begin again. _

The Courier stood, beret still clasped in her hands. He followed her, the two standing a few feet apart. It was she who closed the distance, one last moment of weakness. Her arms wrapped around him, head nestled into his shoulder. Breathing him in. One last memory.

It lasted long enough for her to be aware of the sensation before she pulled away. The courier turned to leave.

“If I could-” Boone began, when she opened the tent flap. He didn’t finish the sentence, letting the silence hang.

She crossed the threshold, and let the canvas fall.

_ Let go. Begin again. _

The static in her mind was deafening. She waited for the explosion, but it never came.


	2. Confession

It was late spring when he walked into Goodneighbor. It’d been months since Charmer had signed on, and for the first time Deacon was without her.

By her choice. He’d come back to HQ after an errand of his own to find her gone and Desdemona proclaiming they both had earned a break.

Deacon didn’t do breaks. He knew better than to seek her out, knew that Desdemona was right and that Charmer needed some air after months of nonstop work. Needed some air from him. But he couldn’t stop. Stopping meant taking down the identities and sitting in his own fucking head.

So there he was. Goodneighbor. Dirty suspenders and a tilted fedora. Cigarettes and tommy guns. An intel run, ostensibly. Checking in with Amari. Simple enough that in his head he begged for some sort of complication, something to spin a check-in into something more so that he wouldn’t have time to dwell.

His wish was granted when he saw Hancock leaning against the brick wall of the Old State House. The ghoul flashed him an irresistible grin, tipping his hat. He wanted something. Hancock was all charm in most cases, but when he wanted something he turned it up to eleven.

“Tommy!” 

It was a joke between Deacon and Tommy Whispers. How many Toms could they fit in the Railroad? Tinker, Whispers. What if they had an army of identical Toms? It seemed fitting for a Goodneighbor guise, so in Goodneighbor he wore the name and half the personality. Now Whispers was dead, and the humor was all gallows. But wasn’t that how it always went?  
  
Whispers’ gun was in Charmer’s hands.

“Hey, boss.” Deacon nudged his head up in greeting, hands in his pockets. Tommy was a cat, slinking about - curious and cautious. “What’s going on?”

Hancock let out one of his trademark laughs - half-bred with a chuckle. The one that said _ oh, you get ready for this _. He clapped Deacon on the back when he approached, pulling him into a conspiratorial huddle. Deacon had to admit this was one of the perks of the job - the few times he’d met the Mayor with Charmer, the ghoul had taken a noticeable dislike to him. Deacon’s expertise, though, was undeniable - and worth the cost of putting up with him. Made things easier.

“My mysterious friend.” Hancock smelled vaguely of Jet. Must have just taken a hit. Deacon relaxed - Hancock’s drug use wasn’t out of the ordinary, but it did signal that his problem wasn’t dangerous enough to warrant sobriety. Few things were - but those were the things Deacon was worried about. “We’ve got a newcomer in town. Wasn’t too eager to talk when I greeted her, but I’d like to know more.” Hancock continued. Deacon kept his expression in check, but he could see where this was going. 

“Aw hell, boss.” Deacon gave Tommy’s bashful chuckle. “You think I’m that good with the ladies?”

Hancock barked a laugh. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.” He turned to look Deacon in the eye - well, sunglasses - expression suddenly gravely serious. “I’m serious.” That dangerous edge in his eyes. “Could be trouble, and I wanna know if I’ve gotta put her on the blacklist. Or…” His tone turned mischievous. Hancock high changed moods as often as Deacon changed identities. “... another list entirely.”

“You’ve got it, boss. One arch nemesis. Or girlfriend. Coming right up. You, uh, want fries with that?” A little more irreverent than Tommy’s usual habits, but fuck it - Hancock knew the score, and Deacon couldn’t help himself from ribbing the ghoul mayor.

Hancock clapped him on the back again - hard enough to get Deacon to let out a pained grunt. The ghoul was _ enjoying _ this. “You’ll find her in the Third Rail. You’ll know when you see her. She’s… well, a lot like Blue, actually.” Deacon’s stomach twisted a little at the thought of Charmer - Blue, to the Commonwealth at large, thanks to Piper’s writings. Hancock tapped a ruined finger to his lips thoughtfully. “But not. Polar opposite. Listen, you’ll get it when you see her.” The ghoul added as they rounded the corner. He gave Deacon a light nudge in the direction of the Third Rail.

“An excellent and in depth briefing, boss.” Deacon called over his shoulder. Hancock was bent over, giggling.

“Come see me when you’re done. I want to hear _ all _ about it. And about what the fuck you did to get Blue to ditch you!” A last playful twist of the knife. If Hancock hadn’t been happy to turn a blind eye to the Railroad’s activities in Goodneighbor he’d have told the Mayor to fuck off, but Deacon figured they owed Hancock a favor or ten.  
  
“Junkie asshole.” Deacon murmured under his breath as he descended the steps.

  
  
—-

Hancock wasn’t kidding. Deacon knew the woman he was talking about the moment he saw her.

She sat at the bar, a cloud of smoke surrounding her. Lit cigarette in one hand, glass of whiskey in the other. Battered duster painted in stars and stripes, somewhat obscured by the sniper rifle slung across her back. The duster’s sleeves were ripped off - a leather coat worn underneath to brace against the chill that ever permeated the Commonwealth. Red beret on her head with a patch he didn’t recognize, sat on thick waves of dark hair. Her skin was tanned in a way that was foreign to the ‘Wealth. The woman was a stranger, that much was obvious - and by appearance alone Deacon knew why she’d roused Hancock’s interest.

It wasn’t her appearance that set off Deacon’s alarms, though. It was what Hancock had tried to describe, in his drug addled haze. The woman had an _ energy _ . That aura that clung to Charmer, too - a strange pull, a vibration, the feeling that this was a person who would enact change. That this was someone with a _ destiny _. Buzzing like radiation, a warning and a siren song.

Deacon understood what had Hancock worried and intrigued, now. The Third Rail’s patrons gave her a wide berth. This was going to be an interesting job. His last attempt at reading someone like her was Charmer, and he’d stumbled in spectacular fashion. Tongue tied at Diamond City and Bunker Hill, whatever identity he’d pulled on when spying on her going up in flames at just a look. 

So maybe he wouldn’t wear an identity here. Maybe he’d be himself - just enough that he wouldn’t out his purpose. It wasn’t an appealing prospect, fucking terrifying, actually, but if this woman was anything like Charmer… the intel would pay for his therapy bills in _ spades _.

Deacon took the barstool to her left and waved Charlie over. “Vodka.” The Railroad’s celebratory drink of choice. He wanted the happy association here. The stranger didn’t make a move to acknowledge him, but he could feel her tense. Bristle. The sunglasses let him survey her without notice. 

She was an unconventional beauty. Feminine cut with masculine, skin rough from the sun and dust. Full lips, hooded eyes - and circles dark enough that she must not have had a good night’s rest in _ years _. Hancock was right - polar opposite of Charmer, whose plain looks were more than made up for by her warmth and old-world ideals. This was a woman born of the wastes, who’d seen enough to burn away any hope of those noble old goals.

This woman was a mirror of himself, he realized. At least, who he was before he met Charmer, before he’d been given some evidence that maybe there was hope after all. Deacon recognized the signs, as he sipped his vodka - the twitch of her fingers, the tensing of her jaw. Cold fury and pain rolled off of her in waves, threatened to capsize whatever dared go near.

Deacon downed the rest of his vodka, stifling a grunt as it burned its way down his throat. Liquid courage imbibed, it was go time. 

“Whiskey.” He ordered next, earning a tilt of the head from the woman next to him. Just as planned. Deacon felt an internal flutter of pride - damn, he was good at his job.

“Leave the bottle.” she spoke at last. Her tone bordered on a growl. Charlie clucked his tongue - well, played an audio recording of the noise - and followed the command after the woman tossed a few caps onto the countertop. Her cigarette was spent, and she stabbed it into a nearby ashtray. Another was withdrawn from her pack on the counter - a brand he didn’t recognize - and she swivelled in the barstool to face him, cigarette between her fingers. “Got a light?”

The question startled him - he wasn’t expecting that degree of familiarity yet. Just like Charmer. With some effort, he found a lighter in his pockets. The flame cast light on their faces, and Deacon realized she was just trying to get a look at what was behind the sunglasses. It was an old trick he was fond of. The satisfied hum she made as she took a drag added further evidence to that hypothesis. Shit.

“Ain’t that a fucking kick in the head.” The woman murmured, smoke escaping her lips. “You’re a doppelganger, stranger.”  
  
“I’ve been told that.” Deacon shrugged and downed his shot of whiskey. “Got one of those faces, I guess.” An inside joke. Charmer would have laughed. The whiskey burned worse than the vodka. He made a note to keep the jokes to a minimum, with the stranger - from what he could remember of his own turmoil, she wouldn’t appreciate them one fucking bit.

“Bad face to have.” she replied.

“You’re telling me.” The conversation ended. The silence was companionable, oddly enough. The stranger was burning through her whiskey, and he watched as a drifter or two started to take note. He could guess at their thoughts - _ drunk, maybe she’s more willing to commiserate. _ Even so, none dared to approach just yet - her danger was obvious, and only Deacon was dumb - or done - enough to engage. He was rewarded for it when the stranger was well into the bottle.

“Face like yours is why I’m here.” she murmured. Drawled. Not quite slurring, but a difference from the usual Commonwealth accent.  
  
“Where you from?” Time to get the info, and get out. Deacon had dealt with his share of angry drunks, and it was a careful balancing act to keep a mark talkative drunk and not hostile drunk.

“New Vegas.” Another drag from her cigarette. She watched him for a few moments, as if waiting for something. “Not calling bullshit?”

“Good at catching lies.” Deacon reached for the whiskey bottle and found the stranger did not stop him. Vegas was out west - _ far _out west, he’d seen his share of intact maps. The last person to walk from out west to the Commonwealth was Kellogg, and that knowledge fucking scared him. He refilled his shot glass, and at her expectant look downed it. The stranger made a noise of approval. The burning sensation was starting to fade - his signal for slowing down. 

“It’s the truth.” The stranger began. “Walked across the entire fucking country. Crossed through the fucking Divide. Fought a man I can’t remember but who remembered _ me _ . Fought men of both sides with their faces sandblasted straight off. Walked through hell, where every fucking deathclaw emerges from, thirsted, starved, and at last made it to the other side, to the very edge, to the fucking _ sea _ . Six years. Because of that face.” She pointed a finger at him, gesturing at his shaved head under the hat, at his sunglasses, at the white shirt under his suspenders. “Because of a fucking _ man _.” A deadened chuckle. He let her talk - she was venting to the air, pouring forth whatever venom and bile she could. He didn’t know half of what she was saying, but he believed every word. Deacon got the picture that he was the first person she’d told any of this, that this was the first time she’d even breathed any of this into being. The Third Rail was her confession booth. A deacon couldn’t take confession, but he was here, nevertheless.

“Took down the Legion and handed New Vegas on a silver platter to the NCR. I don’t even fucking know if it was the right thing to do.” she continued. “But I did it because I thought it was right.” The stranger ran a thumb up and down her whiskey glass. Her brow furrowed. Guilt, a wince, settled onto her face. “Partly why. Mostly, though - because I thought that maybe then, if I destroyed what had destroyed him, if I made things better, that he could heal, that we could…” The stranger trailed off into silence, her eyes hazy. Suddenly she slammed her fist on the bar, startling Deacon - but it wasn’t enough to draw looks. The Third Rail saw worse. “I thought I could decide the lives of everyone living in the Mojave so easily, because I wanted a man to love me. Like a fucking child. He was in love with a ghost, couldn’t love me. Fuck, even the NCR didn’t want to deal with me. You don’t throw your war heroes back out in the field, turns out. Better to let them rot on their own.”  
  
That silence took over again. Deacon tried to process it, to keep note of the important facts - this was a job, this was work. Intel. But he couldn’t help but feel a lump in his throat. Was it the whiskey, or sympathy? The woman wasn’t Kellogg, here to ruin the world. If she spoke the truth - and hell, as a master of lies he’d know - she’d walked a similar path to Charmer. Responsibility on her shoulders, far more than anyone should bear. It crushed her. Enough to send her fleeing as far east as she could. That lump in his throat grew - would the same happen to Charmer? Would the Railroad cast her aside when it was done?

Deacon was drawn from his thoughts when the stranger took yet another shot of whiskey. She scowled at him, bristling at whatever memory was flashing through her brain at the sight of him.

“He always wore glasses, too. Even indoors, like a fucking asshole. I know why you do it.” she coughed a little, cigarette near forgotten between her fingers. Ash dropped onto the countertop. Her eyes were unfocused, and Deacon wasn’t sure if she was addressing him or the stranger from her past anymore. “Because you can’t hide anything in your eyes. Not really. Windows to the soul. If no one can see into them, no one can know you. You can stay with your ghosts.”  
  
Part of him wondered if she was a vengeful spirit from one of those old mythology books. A seer, intent on cutting to the heart of him. Her words were like a slap in the face, and it was only her intoxication that kept his cover intact. The woman hadn’t left because she’d been abandoned by the world she’d saved. She’d left because the man she loved couldn’t let himself love her back. Deacon had lied to himself, pretended he didn’t see the looks Charmer had given him, the hurt when he’d play her off. Was he the same as the man out west? Destined to turn Charmer away from all she held dear? A sudden urge to prove the stranger wrong overtook him, and he removed his glasses. 

The stranger’s expression shifted. Softening somewhat. She laughed - a little more humor in it this time. “Eyes are different.” she admitted. “Not a twin. But -” The stranger leaned forward, carrying with her the scent of smoke and whiskey. He could make out a scar peeking out from the beret with her this close, a wicked circle at her temple. “- you’re haunted too, all the same. What was it?”  
  
Deacon wrestled with whether or not to answer truthfully. The woman was drunk enough not to notice a lie, he was sure. Still, she’d given her confession. He owed her some scrap of truth.

“Wife.” He left it at that. 

The stranger laughed again. “_ Ain’t that a fucking kick in the head. _” She took one more shot, then looked at him with an intensity that made him feel very small. “Little advice, stranger. You stay with ghosts? Better fucking die and join them. ‘Cause you’re dead to the rest of the world.” 

Deacon knew better than to antagonize her, even incensed as he was. He didn’t know if the woman was some hallucination induced by stress, or if this was an odd sort of dream, but she’d managed to put a crack in that barrier he’d constructed. How could she know? How could she even try to understand? That old anger - the anger of the bigot - was roused within him. 

Despite the fury, he reached out to steady her when she stood. The part of her that reminded him of Charmer held the fire at bay. He wondered what would happen if the two women met. Then wondered if he and Charmer would ever meet again. His mind readjusted to business mode, a defense mechanism that may as well have been in his genes at this point.

“What’s your name?” Might as well try to salvage some information out of this. Part of him wanted to extract parts of her tale for another faked identity. The urge for a new face was stronger than ever. But that amount of raw pain - that stepped too close to home. To use that for lies? It’d make the best ones. But did he have the right?

“Courier Six.” she returned. A title. He wondered what that title meant, out west. “Not that anyone around here gives a shit.” She flicked her cigarette on the floor, stepped on it, and departed the bar before Charlie could kick up a fuss.

Deacon stared at the spot where she’d sat, a million thoughts racing through his mind. He was drawn from them before he could go anywhere particularly dark when a ghoul resident shuffled up to take Courier Six’s seat.

“Wouldn’t try to cozy up to her.” The citizen warned. “Mayor’s got his eyes set on her. Saw her walking out of the state house…” A lopsided smirk. Deacon wondered if Hancock’s finally lost it.

“God help him.” Deacon muttered, leaving his seat to give his report to the Mayor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I made the connection between Deacon and Boone - bald men with sunglasses and dead wives - and couldn't help myself. I've been debating expanding this into a larger work, but in the meantime I hope you've enjoyed and thanks for the kudos.


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